


But At Last Came A Ping

by Lonov



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bootycall, Dirty Talk, Fingering, M/M, PWP, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonov/pseuds/Lonov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ever since they'd started their little arrangement of incredible sex, Mickey felt too full of energy—and stupid fuckin’ emotions—to even think clearly. All he wanted to do was flip tables and punch some fuckers, because it was easier than any other course of action."</p><p>In which Mickey gets an unexpected visitor in the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But At Last Came A Ping

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: there is language here that may offend some people. Since this is told from Mickey's point of view (in third person), gay slurs are used and internalized homophobia is definitely present.  
>  
> 
> The title of this work is based on Robert Frost's "The Lockless Door," mentioned by Sheila in season one. I actually love this poem in relation to Mickey—it's like a metaphorical representation of his relationship with his sexuality.
> 
> This story is set a little before episode 2.08.

Mickey was fuming by the fourth time he heard a rock hit his already-broken window. He’d actually growled when he realized what the _ping_ s of noise were. The fucking street rat kids from his neighborhood had recently developed a taste for pissing him the fuck off. They'd done it once and he'd let them get away with it, partly because he didn't always feel like pummeling a bunch of kids into the ground, but also because he had fucking places to be (he refused to miss a good fuck with Gallagher just to beat some fucking children), and ever since then they'd been trying harder and harder to make Mickey mad. Unluckily for them, tonight there were no work- or Gallagher-related events scheduled. He could spend as much time pummeling them as he wanted...

 

For once, the thought of beating someone up didn't grab all of Mickey's attention. It was too hard not to think about him. _Him._ Ever since they'd started their little arrangement of incredible sex, Mickey felt too full of energy— and stupid fuckin’ emotions—to even think clearly. All he wanted to do was flip tables and punch some fuckers, because it was easier than any other course of action.

So it was a pretty fucking bad time for those thug kids to be playing games with him. Well, bad for them—the electricity that rushed through his veins whenever he sensed a fight made Mickey feel alive. And considering how on edge he was due to his growing obsession with the neighborhood carrot-top, it could be exactly what he needed.

 

There was another _ping_ , then a crack, and it was enough to prompt Mickey to roll out of bed and walk to the window. He kicked a box of garbage around his room and imagined it was the 'hood kids he was about to kick the shit out of.

 

"Get the fuck out of my yard if you know what's good for you!" Mickey shouted out the window. It was dark outside—the streetlights on his block had all been smashed in with a sledgehammer, and most of the houses around his never scraped up enough for the electric bill (Mickey knew because his family was usually in the same place)—and he could barely see two feet outside his window.

 

No one answered. Angrily, Mickey threatened, "Better get lost, assholes. You're gonna learn not to fuck with me!"

 

"Can I fuck you, instead?" A familiar voice asked, and Mickey's heart stopped for a full second. A smirking, freckled face appeared out of the darkness, and when Mickey felt his face go pale with surprise, Gallagher laughed. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you," his smirk grew into a grin. Quietly he assured, "I’ll finger you 'til you're more than ready, practically begging me to fuck that ass."

 

"You better shut the fuck up," Mickey hissed, blood rushing to his cock so fast he thought he might pass out. "If someone hears you, you're a dead man."

 

"Then invite me inside."

 

"Through the window? Why wouldn't just use the goddamn front door? That's what it's fuckin' there for."

 

Gallagher’s smile faded. "And say what, that I'm here for a late night booty call?"

 

"Just walk in. Everyone's doped up and passed out by now, anyway, like fuckin’ clockwork." Mickey glared. "And at least knock on the window, 'stead of throwing fuckin' rocks.”

 

The smirk came back. "I thought it would be romantic."

 

Mickey turned his face away rather than look at that earnest face. "If the window cracks you're paying for it."

 

"It's already broken," Gallagher pointed out as he pulled himself in through the window frame. Mickey chose to ignore him. "You could at least help me get inside."

 

"Keep your voice down," Mickey muttered. He collapsed back onto his bed and watched as Gallagher struggled to haul himself over the window ledge without falling on his head.

 

He did a shitty job of it, and ended up with a face full of laundry.

 

"Hey!" Mickey yelled, deciding to play his attraction off as annoyance. Red hair mussed and shirt lifted to reveal a tightly built stomach, Ian looked amazing. He looked fucking _beautiful,_ and Mickey hated himself for thinking the word. He was Ian Gallagher's bitch and he fucking _knew_ it.

 

But that didn't mean Ian needed to know.

 

"I just cleaned that fuckin' laundry," he growled.

 

Ian raised a freckled hand to massage the equally freckled shoulder that had broken his fall, and he leveled a glare at Mickey. "It was on the floor."

 

"Didn't have time to put it away."

 

"Too busy thinking about how good it's gonna feel with me inside you?"

 

Mickey swallowed hard and stared at the other boy. Truthfully—not that he would ever admit it—he had spent an embarrassing amount of time jerking off to the thought of Ian fucking him. He'd even stuck a few fingers in his ass earlier that day, trying to recreate the feeling of his dick inside him. The result has been the best orgasm he'd ever had while masturbating, still miles behind the way Ian made him feel.

 

Trying for nonchalance, he relaxed onto the bed and flexed his arm muscles. "You gonna keep running your mouth, or are you gonna come fuck me?"

 

"I'm gonna fuck you," Ian promised. He swaggered over to the bed, eyes on Mickey the whole time, as if he was the predator, Mickey the prey. His knees hit the bed and he crawled across the small space between them slowly, savoring it. Distractedly Mickey wondered if he looked as horny as he felt. Judging by the hungry expression on Ian's face, he did.

 

Fuck. And Mickey had been doing so well. He'd only visited Ian once at work that week, and then he made a point not to look him in the eye, in a failed attempt to overcome his stupid fucking crush on him. If Gallagher hadn't showed up to his room tonight and shocked the living shit out of him, Mickey would've kept up that act. Instead he was lying on his bed wearing nothing but boxers and an undershirt, and the closer Ian got, the harder Mickey's dick became.

 

Ian's face loomed over Mickey's, and for a terrifying moment Mickey thought he was about to be kissed. Panicked and angry, he began to push Gallagher away; instead of joining their lips, however, Ian extended his torso so that his crotch, jeans stretched tight over his bulging prick, aligned with Mickey's face.

 

"I'm gonna fuck you," Ian repeated. "But first you're gonna suck my dick. I know how much you like that."

 

He was so sure of himself, which was the worst fucking part. Mickey could hide from his father, and his brothers, and his sister and neighbors and cousins, but he could never hide himself from Ian. From _Gallagher_ , Mickey reminded himself, even as a voice in the back of his head told him it was fucking useless.

 

Because Gallagher was right. Mickey fucking _loved_ sucking dick. He loved the control that came with it almost as much as he loved the lack of control that came with being a bottom. He felt like he was worth something when he sucked Gallagher's dick. Like a fucking faggot bitch who was worth something.

 

"Oh, shit," Gallagher hissed as Mickey unzipped his jeans and reached his hand inside. He bucked his hips forward steadily, positioning himself on Mickey's chest so his dick could easily get sucked between his lips. "That's it, Mickey. Fuck, yeah, that's it," he moaned, fingers tugging lightly at Mickey's hair while he fucked his mouth.

 

With a grunt, Mickey sucked around the top of Gallagher's dick and tongued his slit, already wet with precum.

 

"Yeah," Ian moaned, fingers tightening in his hair. "God, that's—God, I need go fuck you so badly."

 

He pushed Mickey off his prick and guided him onto his stomach. These were Mickey's favorite moments: his ass in the air as long, delicate fingers open him up with copious amounts of lube, and the knowledge that Ian loved this just as much as he did.

 

"That's it," Ian whispered. His fingers dipped further into Mickey's ass, and before he could help it, Mickey bucked. That was the spot Mickey had been trying to find all week, that place Ian's fingers just sought out effortlessly. With each stretch of Ian's fingers, Mickey lost more and more control. "That's it, yeah. Get ready for me."

 

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Mickey groaned. His fists clenched in the bed sheets, and his cock leaked so profusely he worried he might come before Ian was even inside him. It was too much, the sound of Ian's voice and the sensations of his fingers opening him up. He had thought about this too much over the past few days, and with every extra second Ian didn't spend inside him, Mickey's agitation grew. "I’m fuckin' ready. You gonna do it, or what?" He demanded. He would have said more about how Gallagher was being a fucking bitch, how he better fuck Mickey _now,_ if he knows what's good for him, but he was abruptly cut off when Ian grabbed him roughly around the chest and slammed him into the wall next to the bed. He shoved his dick inside of his ass, and Mickey saw stars.

 

"Shit!" Mickey bellowed. He could feel Ian's chest against his back, his sweat covering them both and his warm breath on the side of his face, and for once Mickey didn't have the peace of mind to worry about whether Ian was going to kiss him or not. Mickey didn't even fucking care. There was nothing on his mind except how desperately he needed Ian right there, and how full he felt with that dick inside of him. Ian hammered it into him, the way Mickey loved it, and the both of them panted with each hard thrust.

 

Ian took his prick away for long enough to shove Mickey up against the wall, and Mickey would have clocked him in the face if he'd taken any longer to get the fuck back inside him. When Ian pushed himself back inside of him, Mickey's hole gave in effortlessly. He'd never been so loose for anyone else.

 

"God, Mickey," Ian whispered, breath hot and sweet against his neck. “God, yeah, you’re so good. So fucking good.”

 

"Shut the fuck up and fuck me," Mickey tried to say, but it came out as a grunt and a moan. His face, pressed against an ageing poster on the wall, ached more with every pointed thrust; he felt like he was being broken against Ian, stitched back together each time Ian's elegant hands tugged on his dick.

 

“You look so fucking hot like this,” Ian said, mouth wet against Mickey's ear as he pulled him back forcefully onto his dick. His voice was a low and primal growl, and that alone would have been enough to set Mickey off. "You gonna come for me?”

 

Yeah, he fucking was. He could feel it building with each pull Ian gave on his prick. Unable to hold on anymore, or grasp at the self control that let him pretend he didn't care about Ian in the first place, Mickey let go. He could feel himself squeeze around Ian's cock as he came hard all over the bedroom wall, staining a few band posters in the progress. Stubbornly holding him up, Ian groaned at the tightness and kept fucking him hard, getting further inside him with every pump of his hips.

 

"Gonna come," Ian hissed, his voice higher with each word. By the time Mickey felt hot come fill his ass, Ian was practically screaming. "Fuck, Mick."

 

They collapsed into a sweaty heap on the bed, Ian's arms spread out over Mickey as though he didn't want to let go.

 

Mickey didn't think he wanted to let go, either, but he had already been too close to Ian that night. It was one thing to have Gallagher get in him, and another thing entirely to have this budding sense of warmth in his chest at their proximity.

 

Their fuck was over. It was time for Gallagher to leave.

 

"You gotta go," Mickey said, after several moments of silence. "It's late."

 

"So?" Gallagher asked, annoyance clouding his face. As if to spite Mickey, he rolled over on the bed, face hidden in the blanket. Against the rough fabric he said, in a muffled voice, "I fucked you into the wall less than five minutes ago. Give me a second before you throw me out."

 

Mickey sighed and reached across the bed for the pack of cigarettes on the broken table near his bed. Gallagher fished a lighter out of his jeans on the floor, and they lit two cigarettes. Mickey leaned his shoulders against the wall and stretched his legs out against Gallagher's longer ones.

 

The house was silent; apart from their breathing, Mickey couldn't hear anything. His brothers must still be passed out in the living room; Mandy hadn't come back from the house of whomever the fuck she was fucking now. For a split second, Mickey imagined what it would be like to lay beside Ian like this every night. _Like a couple of bitches,_ his brain supplied, and Mickey grimaced. He could feel the anger overtaking his face. Gallagher needed to get the fuck out of here before Mickey did something stupid.

 

He went to say, "time to get the fuck out, Gallagher," but a different set of words left his mouth.

 

"Why the fuck were you talking so much, anyway? You're not loud."

 

Mickey didn't dare look at him; he hadn't meant to say that and he definitely hadn't meant to reveal that he cared, and that he wondered why Ian did the things he did and said the things he said.

 

But he would be lying if he told himself he wasn't curious. If Gallagher had taught him anything so far, it was that even if Mickey lied to everyone around him, he was fucked if he thought he could fool himself.

 

Even with his face toward the ceiling and a cigarette burning in his mouth, Mickey could feel Gallagher's eyes on him. He pictured the expression on his face: thoughtful, because Ian always said what he felt without thinking about it, and had to look back later to figure out what it meant.

 

Which was stupid, Mickey thought. If you don't think before you speak in the south side of Chicago, you're dead meat sooner or later. Gallagher didn't seem to care about that, though. And really, he could take most people in a fight.

 

Still. It was fucking stupid of him.

 

"I usually am loud." Gallagher said, after a long pause. He stretched one arm his head and took a long drag of his cigarette. Mickey watched as ashes floated onto his bed and singed a hole in his sheets. He would’ve yelled about it if there weren’t so many cigarette burns in his bed already. “Lip used to make fun of me because I couldn’t keep it down when I jerked off in the bathroom. Eventually I realized how to keep my mouth closed.” He smirked. “Tonight I didn’t feel like it. I was too lonely at my house, wanted to come over here and cause a commotion.”

 

With as much venom as he could muster, Mickey gave him the finger. All he said was, “You better not have woken my brothers out of their fuckin’ stupors, you hear me?”

 

Gallagher shrugged. Because Mickey didn’t want to give away how much he’d actually enjoyed hearing Ian’s voice dominate and guide him, he stayed silent and set his expression to one of ambivalence.

 

 “You haven’t come by work in a while,” Gallagher said, voice steady.

 

“I came by Monday,” Mickey muttered.

 

“Yeah, and it’s Saturday,” he pointed out. “You never go that long without sex.”

 

“Who says I wasn’t having sex?”

 

Mickey turned his face to the freckled one beside him; he hadn’t realized how close they were on his tiny bed. Their eyes met, and in a universe where people were fuckin’ gay and nobody asked any questions, they would have kissed.

 

As it was, Mickey snorted and looked away.

 

"Who was it this time?" Gallagher asked, and his hand wound its way down Mickey's torso, which was still clothed in an undershirt.

 

He contemplated threatening the welfare of Gallagher’s fingers if he kept touching him, but decided against it. Instead, he retorted, “Which time?”

 

In truth, Mickey hadn't fucked anyone since Monday. He hadn't even wanted to fuck someone else, because he had a fucking bitch of a crush on Ian Gallagher, and it was enough to make him want to slam his head against the fucking wall.

 

"Oh," Gallagher said. He took his hand away, as though he sensed Mickey’s annoyance, but the smirk returned to his face as though he could see right through the lie. "You should come back to work sometime soon. Linda's still looking for a reason to fire you. If you skip another day, you’re done."

 

"Like I give a shit about a shitty security job," Mickey mumbled, cigarette in mouth.

 

“Whatever,” Gallagher said. He rolled out of bed, zipped his pants, and grabbed his shirt from where it had been tossed on the floor. He seemed intent on leaving, and Mickey definitely wasn’t going to beg him to fucking stay the night, so he watched silently as he adjusted his clothes and walked to the window.

 

He didn’t look back as he began to hoist himself out of the room, and it made Mickey crazy. Gallagher had to be the one to show affection; if they both pretended not to care about each other, this would end in disaster. Not jail-disaster, or murdered-by-Terry-disaster, but the kind of disaster that seemed to occur every time Mickey didn’t see Ian for a while, where there was a lot of anxiety, desperation, and an aching chest.

 

Quickly, Mickey said, “I might come to work tomorrow.”

 

Gallagher caught his eye and grinned. Almost out of the window, he said, “Good night, Mickey.”

 

Mickey didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. Gallagher disappeared back into the darkness outside his window with a smile on his face.

 

After he stubbed out his cigarette and changed his boxers, Mickey collapsed back into bed.

 

“‘Night,” he muttered to the empty air.

 

He was so fucked.

 


End file.
